Christmas Eve
by erbsen
Summary: In the spirit of the season, I was inspired to write this short, and very modest piece. Its focus is Caroline Bingley, as I find her character fascinating, on the eve of her first Christmas without Mr. Darcy to pursue. I hope you enjoy.
1. Different

**Disclaimer: I am not Jane Austen.**

**Note: This took an interesting turn towards the middle, but I'm pleased with it... There will be a sort of follow-up chapter added later...**

"What could I possibly give a man who has everything?" Caroline Bingley asked her reflection in the shop window. Pouting her lips to make sure they still held their color, she touched a gloved hand to her forehead, brushing away strands of copper hair which had escaped the grip of her bonnet.

"The same thing you've given him every Christmas," she told herself, bells happily jingling as she entered the store and began browsing isles of paper, inks, and pens.

"Hello, Miss Bingley," the keeper greeted, face red from an abundance of eggnog this season. "Will it be the same again?"

"Mr. Aldridge," she exclaimed, lips barely containing a jovial grin, "I would prefer if you would pretend that I _do_ know what I'm doing in your shop at sunset on Christmas Eve."

"Oh, I think you know _exactly_ what you're doing, Miss Bingley," he joked, leaning back in his chair. "That's why you've been walking since morning."

"You're too clever for me, Mr. Aldridge," she replied, dropping her other gifts to the floor before shedding her long, white gloves from under the sleeves of her burgundy pelisse. He couldn't help but notice how beautifully pale she was. "I so desperately wanted to do something different this year."

"What will you give your brother?" he asked, watching her closely as she browsed his wares.

"I stitched him a baby's blanket. Mrs. Bingley is expecting."

"And will you give her anything?"

"There is a bonnet in the flowered box," she informed him, taking down a stack of paper and examining the pattern. "Do tell me what you think."

Eagerly, the shopkeep slid from his high chair and pranced around his desk to the pile of purchases. He gently lifted the lid and peeked inside.

"Oh, it is most exquisite," he told her, stroking the lilac velvet and running the white feather through his fingers. "I believe this will be well-received."

"Yes, I can only hope. Where have you put the peacock pens?"

"You speak as though she would refuse your generosity, Miss Bingely. They are in the corner to your left."

"Yes, well…" she began to reply, then trailed off as she knelt to consider the pens. "Generous is a relative term, Mr. Aldridge."

"I hear Mr. Darcy has taken a wife," he informed her, and it was as though someone had twisted the stake already shoved through her heart.

"They are very happy," she whispered, standing and brushing the dust from her skirts.

"Have you something for Mrs. Darcy as well?"

"Of course I have! And she is just as difficult as her husband. It's in the case, leaning up against your table. I tell you, I walked all through London to find that silly painting! I should have settled for fruit. Fruit is always welcome this time of year, is it not?" She paused, then said, disheartened, "You're laughing. Pray, tell me why."

"Ready your bonnet strings, Miss Bingley. I am afraid I must deal you a bit of shock."

"I am ready," she said, nodding, and reaching back to hold the shelf—just in case.

"Mrs. Darcy stopped in just last week."

"I hardly find that funny."

"Ironic, maybe, Miss Bingley?"

"Cruelly so. Although… Mr. Darcy is always breaking his pens," she tried to reassure herself, shoulders already slumping in disappointment. "There is no reason he should not appreciate two."

"Ah, but which will he appreciate more?"

Caroline stared at Mr. Aldridge in disbelief, green eyes filling quickly with unwanted tears. An angry flush colored her cheeks, as she began pace and fumble with her bonnet.

"He has never appreciated anything I have ever given him," she said, setting her hair free. Mr. Aldridge couldn't help but admire how it bounced and caught the slowly fading light of evening. The bonnet fell forgotten to the floor. "Never once, and I am lacking talent. Such that I could not hope to ever craft a gift worthy of being displayed in the halls of Pemberly."

"Miss Bingley…"

"Could not Elizabeth have played for him on the piano forte? She is dreadful, but everything she touches turns to gold in his eyes. She could have given him anything and he would have adored it!"

"Miss Bingley…"

"I have not the money for a horse and I know nothing of weaponry without Charles! Mr. Aldridge, what do I give a man who has everything?"

"Miss Bingley," he repeated, and she finally stopped, strawberry lips trembling as she looked to his face for advice. Her sudden attention caught him off guard and he stuttered, "Err, well, in the spirit of Christmas, I think, maybe, you could give him unconditional goodness and... caring… and… and, if that be, um, ridiculous… um… a bottle of… fine wine might suffice?"

"Fine wine?" she asked in disbelief. "Oh, Mr. Aldridge, I think you have had one too many draughts of your own _fine wine_. I surrender to the circumstances and accept that this will be a ruined Christmas."

"It were merely suggestion, Miss Bingley," he explained as she plucked her bonnet from the floor and placed it on her head once more. "Will you leave the store with empty hands?"

"Empty hands, and a full purse, Mr. Aldridge." She was at the front of the shop now, struggling to slip into her gloves.

"Please wait," he blurted, running to the back. He returned with a beautifully embroidered handkerchief.

"Mr. Aldridge, he knows I cannot embroider to save my life," she told him, giving up on her gloves and sticking them in her pockets instead.

"Mrs. Darcy mentioned that Mr. Darcy had come down with a rather awful cold," he explained. "Whether you crafted it or not, I am sure he will need it."

"Well," she said, sniffing softly as she took the object in her hand and held it out of shadow, "it is a pretty thing, and it will certainly be a surprise. How much will you ask for it?"

"I need nothing in return from the fair lady."

The compliment caught her off guard. She looked down at his feet, lashes veiling her eyes as they darted nervously around the floor. She had long since forgotten how to react to such flattery. In the past, she remembered, she had responded with some sort of wit, but wit escaped her now.

"Thank you," she whispered, tucking it safely into her pocket with the gloves.

"Will you be needing help getting home? I could have my sister man the sales while I escort you."

"And what would Louisa think," she asked, looking up, a wide grin spreading across her features, "if I were to show up to her home on the arm of a handsomely drunk man?"

"Oh, she would be thoroughly jealous," he said, returning the jest.

"And Charles?"

"Overjoyed," he cried and he delighted in her giggles that followed. His countenance quickly dropped as he remembered why he should not have offered her a ride. "I'm… I'm afraid, Miss Bingley, that our horse has gone lame, so we would have… um…to walk."

"Nevermind walking," she told him, watching as he began gathering her gifts. "I am in a walking mood to-day. Oh, you can leave that one."

"Which one?"

"The fine wine," she chuckled as he opened a box from the fanciest cellar in town. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Aldridge."

"Mmmm, I know the most tasteful and thoughtful woman in London," he cried, chasing her out of the building with her purchases in tow. She laughed loudly as she ran, her bonnet falling to bounce wildly against her shoulders.


	2. Home Again

**Disclaimer: I am not Jane Austen.**

**Note: I seem to want to continue this... so another chapter should be up soon (hopefully, the last one)**

When they arrived her brother-in-law's Grosvernor Street home, the last bit of sun had slipped below the horizon.

"Mr. Aldridge," Caroline said, her breath visible on the cold air, "I feel I must thank you again for rescuing my countenance. I could not face Charles in so flustered a state. He must spend all his attentions on his wife."

"It were nothing," he replied, reaching out to touch her rosy cheek.

"Oh, you cannot possibly think that, Mr. Aldridge," she whispered, letting his cold fingers linger on her skin before stepping back, thoroughly embarrassed. "It is everything to me."

"It is a comfort to know it was well received, Miss Bingley," he said, sticking his hand back into his coat pocket.

"I… I am afraid that, since everyone seems to be married now, I will find myself very much alone."

"Your brother loves you very much, Miss Bingley."

"Yes, but I never imagined his wife would… captivate his mind so entirely. A variance in setting or in manner doesn't always prove unfortunate, but there have been instances, and…"

"And Mr. Darcy?" he offered, knowing the direction the conversation was headed.

"I'm afraid I bore him with my consistency, Mr. Aldridge. Pens and propriety," she laughed. "What was I thinking?"

"There is no shame in tradition, Miss Bingley."

"Thank you, Mr. Aldridge," she said again, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around his waist, her head coming to rest upon his chest.

He was quite taken aback by this advancement, but a glance upwards revealed Louisa Hurst pressing her piggy face against the window, jealousy burning deep in her eyes. Smiling knowingly to himself, he took his hands from his pockets and placed one just above the small of her back, while the other gently combed through her red hair. Miss Bingley was quite the performer.

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Aldridge," she whispered into the fabric of his coat. He smelled so familiar, yet she could not place it. She only wished that she could keep it with her forever.

"You've already given me a gift, Miss Bingley," he replied, and she noticed a change in his stance as he pulled away. It seemed almost sad, though his words still carried no weight. "I promise every drop will go to use."

"I'm giving you unconditional goodness and caring, Mr. Aldridge," she laughed, finally opening the door. "Relish in it."

"I will relish until my dying days, Miss Bingley," he said, turning to walk down the street. "Good night."

Absolutely brimming with bliss, Caroline practically skipped to the living room where her family was lounging. They all stood upon her entrance—excepting Mr. Hurst, who was preoccupied with the holiday ham—and stared.

"Charles," she said, with a bounce to her curtsy he hadn't seen in ages. "Mrs. Bingley. Louisa. Mr. Hurst, is the ham to your liking? Mrs. Darcy. Mr. Darcy, I hope you had a pleasant stay at your aunts."

"Who were you kissing on the porch, Caroline?" Louisa questioned, voice full of venom.

"You were kissing a man on the porch?" Charles asked, taking in her disheveled hair and damp skirts. "Caroline, you were _kissing_… a _man_… on _this _porch?"

"Heavens, Charles, it were all in the spirit of the season," she joked, taking a seat on the floor as the rest of the party sat once more on the couch.

"My poor, Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth whispered, snuggling into her husband's arm as the Bingley family argued, "whoever will wrongly pursue you now?"

"It is a very good ham, Miss Bingley," Mr. Hurst interrupted. He was promptly ignored, as Louisa continued her nonsensical accusations.

"He is a good man," Jane tried to reassure her husband, hands resting on her swollen belly, "if he helped your sister carry all these wonderful gifts to the house."

"Oh, the gifts!" Caroline cried, having momentarily forgotten how difficult it had been to maneuver them through the hallway. "You may open them now," she said, quickly distributing them, "for I am impatient and cannot possibly wait a second longer."

Mr. Hurst delighted in his bananas; Louisa scoffed at the new—and much more fashionable—shoes. Charles and Jane were both overly grateful, though nothing less was expected. Elizabeth thanked her, though blandly, and apologized that the painting would have to be put in storage until they could find room.

When it came time to give the handkerchief to Mr. Darcy, she took one look at his frown and wilted. He was already unhappy and she hadn't even shown him the surprise. Closing her eyes, she pulled it out of her pocket and held it out for him.

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Darcy," she whispered, turning her face as though she expected a physical blow.

He slid the thing from her fingers and examined it.

"A handkerchief?" he asked, smiling even though he knew she could not see it. Elizabeth opened her mouth to comment on the obvious—that Caroline had had no hand in making the object—but a knowing glance from her husband silenced her. "It's a good thing Mrs. Darcy thought to buy me pens, then, isn't it? Thank you, Caroline."

She sighed, and clapped her hands together, and everything was well.


End file.
